


One for the Money, Two in the Snow

by cosmic_medusa



Series: Two in the Snow [1]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Curtain Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Partners in Crime, Quentin Tarantino References, Too much cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-06 21:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Holdaway tracks down the ones who got away, and finds a picture of domestic bliss.





	One for the Money, Two in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mamcine_Oxfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamcine_Oxfeather/gifts), [Merixcil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/gifts).

> Avoided Reservoir Dogs because I heard it was so horrifically violent...but after seeing all the rest of Tarantino, buckled up and watched. Don't know how I've gone all these years without it. Also without the magnificent fic [c a n d y c o r n](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313026/chapters/12267140) by [Mamcine_Oxfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamcine_Oxfeather/pseuds/Mamcine_Oxfeather) and [Coming Round The Mountain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664593) by [ Merixcil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil). This is a pale attempt at emulating them.

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

The house is no house—it’s a motherfucking _cabin_. And not the kind the pilgrims put together. No, it’s big, and modern, with tall glass windows, a collection of porch furniture, a carved wooden sign that announced the storefront, and a two-story outside stair that served as a secondary entrance to the owner’s apartment. There’s a stone path to a private dock, where a canoe is tied up on a swimmer’s stairwell. There’s a large shed with a padlock, a big black truck and a smaller, normal car.

The area is popular year-round for serious hunters, fishers, and campers, and everyone he’d asked swears by this place. Any weapon you could imagine, for all types of weather. Guns, knives, and basic supplies—that’s what the sign reads, under “Smith Hunting and Fishing.”

Holdaway sits in his rented Jeep and gapes. There’s a grill off to the side, a picnic bench, and a fire pit. There’s bushes and a small garden facing the lake. There’s _curtains_ on the upstairs windows. It screams wholesome, family, outdoors—nothing he’d ever associate with two madmen on the lam.

He gathers himself and tucks his gun in his boot, leaves the keys in the ignition, and steps out of the drive toward the porch. There’s an “Open” sign in the front door, and a bell rings when he swings it open, the scent of cedar, gun oil, and cinnamon hitting him. It smells like a motherfucking _gift_ shop.

But it’s packed with weapon upon weapon—guns from small to giant, an entire wall of knives, glass cases of lures, floor to ceiling shelves of bullets, even a high-tech looking bow and arrow display. There’s a sign announcing “WE HAVE GUNPOWDER” and a stand of snacks, mainly jerkeys and trail mixes. And fishing rods, in more colors and sizes than Holdaway had ever seen.

Behind the counter sits a grizzled looking man, with a deep tan, a dark blue button down shirt, and large black hiking boots propped on the counter, which he promptly drops when he sees a customer.

“Hey there,” he smiles. “Nice morning, eh?”

It’s unmistakably Larry Dimick—he doesn’t make any attempt to hide his true voice, even with the Canadian colloquiliaism. His hair has gone mostly gray and a toothpick has replaced his cigarette. He grins when Holdaway enters, an affable shopkeeper, and gets up from the stool he’d been perched on, eyes on a small portable TV.

“I’m Darrel Smith. Need some help?” he asks.

“This place is something,” Holdaway admits.

“We designed it for serious hunters, but we get all kinds. This your first time up here?”

“Sure is.” He grins. “Imagine you don’t get many guys looking like me in.”

“Sure we do. Men of all types like to bring down big game. Some ladies too. The regulars don’t waste time admiring the goods—they rattle off what they want straight out the gate.”

“Ah.” Holdaway cracks a grin. “I’m going after some real big guys on this one—been tracking them for awhile. Bringing them down won’t be easy.”

“My partner’s the big game expert—I’ll get him down here.” He hits a buzzer on an intercom behind the counter, and the faint sound of a call drifts down from upstairs. “I’m more the small stuff, close range, though if you plan to eat what you kill, I’m your guy.”

“Cutting up the bits and skinning—that’s you,” Holdaway says, picturing the mugshot notes in his head. _Cut off the little finger._

“Sure is. We offer classes, if you want. We can also do it for you, off-season only. Come summer we barely have time to blink.”

“You been here awhile then?”

“Going on ten years. Bought the place when it was real run-down, fixed it up. You from the States?”

“DC, originally,” he lies.

“What brings you up this way?”

“I get two weeks vacation a year—one goes to visiting the in-laws with the wife and kids. One I get just for me.” That, at least, is truth.

“In-laws,” Larry shakes his head, finger still parked on the buzzer. “I hear you there, my friend. Mine come ‘round for Christmas every year and it’s a fuckin’ shit-show.”

Holdaway knows—tracking Linda Newandyke was how Holdaway had originally found this place. A pet project that suddenly turned into what might be the biggest bust of his career.

Larry tosses the toothpick and comes up with a fresh one. Holdaway chuckles.

“Former smoker?”

“_Reformed_, smoker,” he grunts, and punches the buzzer once more. “My better half decided to quit, which automatically meant _I_ had to quit.”

“I’ve been there, man. It’s like bait and switch. We fall for someone who loves a smoke, suddenly they bail and it’s them or the pack.”

“I’m not getting any younger. It was for the best. I’m lucky to have someone who worries. Went a long time without that.”

Holdaway feels a tug of guilt in his belly and nods. “Been there too,” he says.

“Stop with the fuckin’ buzzer!” an all too familiar voice calls, and a pair of sneakered feet appear on the stairs.

“Customer!” Larry calls cheerfully, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Yeah, I _got that_, motherfucker,” Freddy grumbles. His hair is shorter, darker, and not quite combed, but the nose, the eyes, the build, the voice—it’s Freddy Newendyke, LAPD. Still wiry, still wearing loose flannel over a black t-shirt, still clad in his too-big pants and moving with attempted tough-guy posture, but he smiles at Holdaway and says “sorry ‘bout that—I’m Tim Dunham. Guessing you’re big game hunting?”

“The biggest,” Holdaway says. “Two of them. Been tracking for a long, long time.”

Freddy—“Tim”—squares off, looks in his eyes, and pales. Behind him, he feels Dimick’s energy shift, instantly responding to his partner’s reaction.

“You don't have jurisdiction up here,” Freddy blurts out.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t bring along those who do.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Larry snaps.

“Darrel. This man and I knew each other. Back in LA.”

“I was his supervisor. Taught him everything he knew about acting cool. I’m the reason he played you as well as he did. Isn’t that right, Freddy?”

“Please,” the once-cop is shaking. “Let me say goodbye. Just…I want to say goodbye to him.”

“No one’s saying goodbye.” Instantly, the sounds of door locks echo, as well as the release of a safety: Dimick has a gun in hand, looking casual as hell. “Well, maybe _this_ motherfucker is, but not you and me. Not today.”

“I just came here to talk,” Holdaway says. “That’s all. Just a nice chat between old friends.”

“Strip your shirt and pants off, asshole. I want to see if you’re wearing a wire.”

“Larry,” Freddy murmurs, a warning and plea in one.

“Nothing untoward. Just making sure.”

“I have a gun on my right pant-leg.”

“I _said_, strip down. Leave it where it is.” Larry comes around the counter, eyes locked on his own. “Nice and easy, now. And just in case you _are_ wired in, listen up—there’s a handful of gunpowder caches on hand for just this occasion. You come at us, this place gets blown to hell, and anyone within five-hundred feet of it goes down too.”

“We gotta get away from the windows, man,” Freddy pleads.

“No one’s taking a shot at us, not unless they want a firestorm on their hands.” He narrows in on Holdaway. “_Strip_.”

Holdaway does what he’s told. Newandyke seems frozen, looking like he wants to bolt but won’t leave his gangster lover. When Holdaway drops his pants Larry nods to his leg, and Freddy retrieves the gun, staring at the LAPD sticker on the side like it’s radioactive.

“Larry,” he says, voice suddenly high and pleading.

“Stay with me, buddy-boy,” Dimick soothes.

“_Larry_.”

“We’re fine. There’s no one with him—I’ve had my eyes on the cameras. The nearest person is Dale, up the bluff stalking that stupid moose of his. No one around for miles.”

“Larry…I’m sorry. About the buzzer. I should have come right down. I don’t want ‘shutup’ to be the last thing I say to you.”

“It ain’t going to be. Hang in there for me,” Dimick’s eyes stay locked on Holdaway’s, even as the man stands there in his boxers. “You want me to pat you down, or your old pal?”

“Whichever one of you would like it more.” Dimick’s eyes flash, but Freddy’s moving to catch his arm.

“Stop. He’s clean. If they sent him here for anything, it’s a distraction, while they circle us. We can lock him in the store room and book it.”

“There’s no need for that,” Holdaway assures them. “I’m just here to talk. You left a hell of a lot of questions behind you, Freddy-boy. I’d like some answers.”

“We have a cat,” Newandyke babbles. “We donate half our kills to Meals on Wheels. We donate to March of Dimes twice a year.”

“Freddy, shut it down,” Larry orders. He lowers the gun to waist level and stares Holdaway down for a long minute. “Get dressed,” he finally says. “Fred, go put up the ‘back in an hour,’ sign and flip the phone to voicemail. We’ll take this upstairs.”

**CALIFORNIA, AUGUST 1992**

_“Stop—don’t shoot! Larry—Larry, I’m sorry—hold on, please, Larry please! Don’t hurt him—he saved me! He’s already shot—stand down—stop, stop!”_

Larry Dimick groaned himself awake and found himself staring up at a white ceiling, the sound of a heart monitor beeping near by, and a handcuff on his left wrist. A woman in blue scrubs was frowning at him, and she startled a little when he rolled toward her, then reached over and hit a button.

“Mr. Dimick, stay calm. You’re in a hospital.”

The kid. Bleeding out on the ramp at the warehouse…_shit shit shit_…

He tried to speak and found his mouth unfathomably dry and full of bad tastes. The woman leaned over and dabbed his lips with a strange moist toothpick, making him shudder. “O—Orange,” he groaned.

“Sorry, no juice yet. The doctor will be here in a moment, and see if we can’t get you cleared to try water.”

He tried to shake his head and felt like the whole room rocked with him. “No. The kid…”

“Sorry, don’t know who you mean. Maybe the doctor—”

“_Orange_,” he pleaded, and then his mind flashed on something. “The cop…”

The woman’s face lost its kindness. “He’s in a coma. Has been since they brought him in. Died twice. You did too, you know. First time I’ve heard of a cop being packed into an ambulance with the man who shot him.”

“Sonofabitch,” he whispers. _I didn’t fuckin’ shoot him—I couldn’t. He’s fuckin ruined me, and I couldn’t._

“What’s that?”

He looks up at her, swallows, and manages “fuck you, bitch.”

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

The apartment is shockingly well-decorated: there’s a large brown leather sofa and a matching easy chair, a handful of knitted throws, some local artwork and a set of antlers over the television. The kitchen is modern and smells of coffee and bacon, and a wood table with four chairs sits comfortably in the corner. A cat blinks lazily from the window over the sink, then looks back outside toward the lake, seemingly unphased by the stranger and her owner’s gun.

“This ain’t no LA bachelor pad,” Holdaway says.

“A hooker I knew wanted to go straight. Paid her to decorate. Every other week we get a cleaning crew to come in, do the store and here. You want some coffee?”

“Love some.”

“Go pour yourself a cup. Milk in the fridge, sugar on the table.”

“Black is fine.”

“Pour a cup for Freddy too, please. Splash of milk.”

“He drank it black when I knew him.”

“He still does. Warm milk will mellow him out.”

Christ, Larry Dimick is such a _Mom_. Holdaway finds two mugs in the neat, full cabinets and pours out two cups. The fridge has real groceries—vegetables, apples, meat with labels and dates, a casserole dish. The Freddy he knew had ketchup, mustard, and beer in his fridge and little else.

“Table,” Larry orders, the gun still on him. Holdaway knows better than to relax—the man is a career criminal and a cop-killer, and the charm screams _psychopath_.

Freddy comes up the stairs, looking a little less shaken. “I checked the cameras—nothing.”

“Told you,” Larry says, but his tone is warm. “Take a load off—your old pal poured you some coffee.”

“Christ, Lar, my heart’s about to crawl out my throat, I don’t need a fuckin’ cup of coffee.”

“No, but you’re gonna drink it, and breathe, while he and I talk a bit. Okay?”

His tone is gentle, soothing, more so than Holdaway would have thought him capable. He flashes back to a half-conscious Freddy in the hospital, moaning in pain, calling out for Larry, pleading for the older man to help him, to hold him, and he wonders if this soft-voiced, gentle side was the one he’d seen as he bled out in the warehouse.

“Have a seat, Officer…or is it Detective? Lieutenant?”

“Sergeant,” Holdaway says.

“Sergeant. Have a seat, please. Hands above the table. Freddy, by the door.”

Newandyke slouches into his seat and curls his fingers around the mug. Larry settles into the chair beside him and drapes his free arm around the back of his partner’s chair, the other hand aiming the gun with expert assuredness.

“Now, you’ve obviously come here to take us off guard, but you also didn’t come with the cavalry, so I’m inclined to believe it’s more curiosity than a bust that you’re after. But you also came armed into our place of business, and I don’t appreciate that. The last person who attempted to threaten us met with a tragic accident off a cliff-face and we made a killing off of climbing gear—you understand me?”

“Understood,” Holdaway assured.

Freddy holds his gaze without blinking, but Holdaway knows him—fuck, he _taught_ him how to look cool when you were shitting yourself. He keeps his hands out of sight, a surefire sign that they’re shaking, and he leans back, into Dimick’s arm. He’s scared.

Dimick, on the other hand—he’s completely unphased, and it’s real. His hands are steady, and he’s chewing on his toothpick like he couldn’t care less.

“Let’s get everything on the table,” Larry says calmly. “We can talk all you want. We’ll answer any questions. I know for a fact this place ain't bugged, and we already know you’re not wearing a wire, and since we’re not under arrest, anything we tell you is nothing but hearsay. But it ain’t going to come to that. If you've been following us, then you know I don't give a damn about this apartment, or the store, or our life here. The only thing in the world that matters to me is the man sitting on my right, and you know full well I’ll kill for him. So you’d better think, long and hard, about how much busting us means to you, because it’s a foregone conclusion how I’m willing to end this.”

“And I’m telling you that tracking your asses down has been a pet project of mine for nearly fifteen fucking years. There’s a whole lotta people who want a piece of you both, and I could’ve brought a whole bunch of them down on this place. But that’s not what I’m about.” He turned to look at Freddy, who looked back unblinking, though his chin had begun to shake. “I sent you into that shitshow blind. Didn’t know a thing about any of them but Nice Guy and Cabot. Your first gig, and I dropped you into the snake pen without so much as a mobile phone. That has weighed on me, every day, for all these years. This ain’t the life you deserved, man, and I’m sorry for it.”

“I made my own fucking choices,” Freddy says. “And ‘this life’ is normal. We run a store. We live above it. We have neighbors over for barbecue. We go to potlucks.”

“You also have fifty cameras all over the trails here. And fake names and IDs, and a big-ass bounty on both you.”

“Last I checked it was $250Gs,” Larry said casually. “And we weren’t on the most wanted by any stretch. Way bigger fish out there then two aging queers who happen to be armed to the hilt.”

Holdaway looks at Larry, the older man twirling his toothpick with his tongue. He imagines Dimick could shoot him, stash his body in a hunting fridge, eat lunch, and go back to work without a second thought, and he’d do it in a heartbeat if Holdaway so much as crosses his eyes at Newendyke. Freddy though—he ain’t built that way, which is partly why this whole thing went to hell in the first place.

“How’d you get away?” he asks, soft and genuinely curious. “You can’t imagine how many cops were out there looking for you man—you scared us all shitless. Hero like you up and vanishes, the city wants answers. _We_ wanted answers. We blew a lot of covers turning over mob lots hoping we wouldn’t find your remains in some wood-chipper.”

Freddy’s face twisted with guilt. Dimick’s hand came up and rubbed gently at the back of the younger man’s neck.

“We just…grabbed a handful of shit, drained my pension fund, and booked it to Arizona.”

“Not Mexico?”

“I had connections in Arizona, going way back,” Larry explained. “I did a handful of stick-ups, then we booked it over the border. The money lasted us long enough to get to South America. Lot of chaos down there—easy gigs. I put a small crew together and we started fixing games. Ran up the little money we had, then bought us new identities and passage into Canada. We booked up in Quebec for a bit, scouted around, then heard about this place. Bunch of hunters on an online forum were bitching that it had closed and there was nothing around. Called in some favors, got some good deals, patched together a group of guys like us, looking to go straight, and a handful of guys who actually were. Took about a year, but we got it all together and moving. We ain’t buying BMWs anytime soon, but we’re doing good.”

“And in the off-season?”

“We do some shipping, to the regulars who hunt around. Take ice fishers out on the lake, visit the neighbors. Watch war movies, binge TV shows, try new recipes, and have a lot of sex.”

“Fuck, Lar!”

“I said I’d lay it all on the table.”

“I figured this would get R-rated at some point,” Holdaway says. Freddy’s cheeks are flushed. “When did that start between you two? What point in the job?”

“It didn’t,” Newendyke snapped. “It wasn’t like my dick ran off and I followed it.”

“No, you were just friends. That’s how it always starts, right? Boy meets boy, boy has a few drinks and smokes with boy, shoots up a bunch of cops and civilians and goes on a crime spree while fucking the brains out of boy—”

“Don’t you fucking patronize him,” Dimick snapped, the gun raised once more.

“_Fuck_, Freddy! Help me understand, man—because I’ve spent nights agonizing over this. Maybe there were hearts and flowers but you can’t tell me that was worth throwing away everything you believed in. You were a _good cop_.”

“I _didn’t_ throw it all away,” Freddy says, and suddenly the fear is gone and he’s _pissed_, straightening up to match Larry’s height and raising his chin in defiance. “I got into being a cop to help people, to be a good guy, and then I went out on that fuckin disaster of a mission and found out cops are no better than crooks.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Really? Marvin Nash—why would no one step up to save him? Because getting Joe fuckin’ Cabot meant more than any of our lives! I’ll tell you who didn’t feel that way—the crooks I was in with. Except for Blonde, who was a fuckin’ raging psychopath. One _you_ let us be alone with!”

“_Fuck_, Freddy, I never wanted you to get hurt, man! I did all I could to make sure you _didn’t_.”

“You had two cops dying and none of you did _anything!_ But Larry did. Larry took down two friends and took three slugs for me, and poor Marvin Nash, who endured hell, didn’t get a chance at a rescue that should have come the second he was pulled out of the trunk! You know what the brass said to me? ‘You’re a good man, and we’ll find a place for you, but your cover’s blown, so we can’t really use you. Don’t worry, we’ll get you a nice desk job. Maybe a Sergeant’s badge down the road.’

“I thought being a cop would make me something, and it turned out it just reinforced that I was nothing. A stupid, short-sighted sucker. But this man, here? He didn’t think so. He never did. He wasn’t willing to sacrifice me. No one else,_ including you_, can ever say that.”

Holdaway held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t come here to fight, Freddy.”

“Then why _are_ you here?”

“As a friend.”

“You brought a gun.”

“I always bring my gun.”

“You said you’d been tracking me for a long time.”

“I _have. _I wanted to see where you lived, _how_ you lived, if you’re good.”

“I’m good.” He’s shaking now, visibly. “I want you to leave, and not look back. Or call in your troops. But don’t make me sit here and fuckin’ _wait_ for it.”

“There’s no troops,” Holdaway assured. “Freddy—look at me. I’m at the Holiday Inn, in town, okay? I fly out tomorrow. You want to see me before then, you know where I am.”

“Think it’s time for you to leave now,” Dimick says calmly. “Let me walk you out.”

Larry marches him down the stairs with the gun brushing the back of his neck, like Holdaway could ever forget it’s on him.

“We gonna have a problem?” he asks when they reach Holdaway’s rental car.

“I just want him to be okay. That’s all.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to him. Including letting someone like you stick him in a cage with violent assholes for the rest of his life.”

“I’m not here to do that, Mr. White.”

“‘Mr. White,’” Dimick chuckles. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. You know there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think of that fuckin’ shitshow. Those poor guys in the jewelry store. Those cops who were at the wrong place, wrong time. And that poor kid, Freddy, screaming as his guts are bleeding all over the back seat.”

“I love him too, man,” Holdaway said. “A lot of people do. He could come back with me, to LA, and we’d get this whole mess sorted. Get him set up with a job, an apartment, get the hunters gone.”

“He can leave anytime he wants. I don’t make his decisions.”

“Don’t you?”

Dimick’s eyes flashed. “_No_. I know what I am, and I told him ages ago to get gone. He chose not to. Long as that’s his choice, then I’ll defend it—and _him_—to the death.” He opened Holdaway’s car door. “Time to go, Serge.”

Holdaway pulled out a card and offered it. “If you guys ever get in a jam…you call me, alright? I’ll pull every fucking string I can find.”

Dimicl took a long look before nodding and stuffing the card in his back pocket. “I appreciate that. And if you’re in the area, without cops, and want to swing by…I won’t say no. He might, but I’ll encourage it. Deal?”

“Deal.” Holdaway held out a hand, relieved when Larry took it, slipping his gun into his back pocket.

“Careful. These roads are rough,” he said, without a hint of threat. Holdaway got in, shut the door, backed out the drive, and was half down the road before glanced in the rearview. Larry stood by the mailbox, relaxed, but those cutting eyes took in every inch he drove, remembering them.

**CALIFORNIA, FEBRUARY 1993**

“Your Honor, the people request no bail. Mr. Dimick is a career criminal and a flight risk.”

“Your Honor, my client has no assets. His home has been seized, his car impounded. He’s been in the hospital recovering from multiple gunshot wounds. We ask that he be remanded to a rehabilitation center to continue his healing.”

Larry Dimick didn’t even glance to his public defender—he could _feel_ the judge’s eagerness coming off her in waves. She had a cop killer in her court, one of the handful of survivors of the jewelry store and warehouse slaughter, and the hell if she was going to deny herself her fifteen minutes.

“Mr. Dimick. You have lived a life of no value or respect to society. You have prided yourself on your career criminality and are alleged to have taken the lives of multiple officers of this city in order to keep yourself from facing justice for your crimes. While you may have little funds at the moment, you have an extensive network of criminals to draw on, and that I deem a flight risk. I will set bail at one million dollars.” She struck her gavel, indicating the next case, when a man rose in the front row.

“Excuse me, your Honor,” he called. “On behalf of my client, I am here to post that bail.”

The courtroom went silent: Larry’s head jerked up, trying to place the newbie, with no luck.

“You’re here on behalf of Lawrence Dimick with one million dollars.”

“The defendant is not my client, Your Honor, but yes, I’m here with the requested funds to see this man released.”

“Who is your client, Counselor?”

“An upstanding citizen and member of the law enforcement community.”

“Who wants to see this man free.”

“Who would like to see him bonded out until his trial date.”

The entire court—Larry and the judge included—seemed baffled. The judge glanced at her baliff, who looked back equally conflicted, before saying “step into the other room. I need to call the next case.”

Two hours later, Larry Dimick walked out of the Los Angeles Superior Court a bonded man.

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

The nice thing about sharing a bed with Larry is Freddy has never again had to ask to be held. When he feels the mattress dip behind him, he loosens up, relieved when the older man slides his arms around him and pulls him against his chest.

“You been here all afternoon?” Larry asks, but his voice is gentle.

“I was throwing up for awhile. Took a shower to calm down. Brushed the hell out of my teeth.”

“Hey—today was shit, I know. But it’s over now. Everything will be just as it was tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Freddy whispers.

“I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

“I always thought this was too good to be true. That it was going to fall apart.” Freddy sniffs and entwines his hand with Larry’s. “That they’d catch or kill us. Maybe they should. Maybe we shouldn’t be here.”

“Shut your mouth, buddy-boy. Whether they like how we did it or not, we did our time. We reformed. Better than most of the scum bags they pack into cells and put back on the streets. We’ve done good, and we’ll keep doing it. If we have to we’ll pack up and start over—it doesn’t matter where. We have money, and IDs, and we can get more of both. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“If they split us up, I’ll never see you again.” Freddy wiped at his cheeks as a few tears rode down them. “They’ll never let us be together, not even with glass between us.”

“_No one’s splitting us up_. If I have to gun down half of the mounties, so be it—I’ll take out them _and_ their damn horses. Nothing’s going to keep us apart.”

Freddy rolled over and looked up into Larry’s eyes. “Let’s fuck, okay?” he murmured, ashamed at the heightened tone of his voice, relieved when Larry straddled him, surrounding him in arms and legs and kisses, pressing their chests together so they can each feel the other's heartbeat, losing them both in the pleasure of each other, for at least one more night.

**CALIFORNIA, FEBRUARY 1993**

Being told he’d made bail was insane enough.

Walking out of jail and finding Mr. Orange standing there waiting for him was absolutely fucking mental.

Without thinking, Larry advances, hands outstretched, and Orange just stands there, bracing himself, for when the older man seizes him and lands a punch that sends him staggering backwards.

“You fucking lying scumbag!” he roars, and winds up once more. “I fucking killed for you!”

“I’m sorry,” Orange gasped, holding his gut, and Larry pulls his punch, hating himself for it.

“You’re sorry. You’re fuckin’ _sorry_. That’s what you have to say to me.”

“It was never about you, or any of the others—it was Joe. We were after Joe. You guys would’ve gotten slaps on the wrist if Blonde hadn’t started shooting. Even then, if you’d given us Joe.”

“I gave you Joe,” Larry’s heart was pounding—though something stayed his hand from the kid’s gut, he kicked him in the leg with all his strength. “And Eddie! In twin fuckin’ body bags! Bet you and your brass fuckin’ loved that, huh? Your hands are clean! The biggest regret of my life is not blowing your fuckin’ brains out.”

Orange winced. “You could have killed me in that warehouse, and you didn’t—you shot the floor.”

“And they shot _me_!”

“Why didn’t you shoot me then?”

“Because you were a dead man already.”

“You told me I wouldn’t be.”

“I was trying to keep you from fucking screaming!”

“You’re lying. I know how to tell.”

“Do you, tough guy? Then what was I after, please, tell me?”

“_Me_.” Orange looked up at him, sad and desperate. “You killed for me; were willing to die for me. That doesn’t just go away because you find out I was undercover.”

“That’s _exactly_ what happens when I find out you’re undercover.”

“You could’ve shot me, but you didn’t. You could’ve strangled me, but you didn’t. You could have left me in the road and gone back to the warehouse alone, but you didn’t. You’re a good man, Larry, I know it.”

“You don’t know shit, you little lying weasel.”

Orange winced. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Fuck you.”

“_Larry_. Let me buy you a drink. Let me buy you seven. I’ll tell you everything, just give me a chance.”

“The fuck would I do that for?”

"Because you love me."

"The fuck I do."

“You do, I know you do. I love you too.”

Larry staggers. He can’t remember the last time someone said that to him—it was probably decades ago, during some brief affair. “You little shit,” he hisses.

“The conversations we had…the hangs in the car, the beers by the beach…that was all real, Larry. So was all the pain when I was shot. That was me. We both kept things from each other, but we don’t have to anymore. We survived a fuckin’ warzone, man.”

“Because I believed you were a good man.”

“I _am_.”

“You killed that woman.”

He winces, the pain on his face real.“I did,” he murmurs. “And you killed two cops.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, you’re fuckin’ insane! The fuck did you even get a million to put up?”

“Publishing house in New York offered me a book deal. They figure they can get a movie or TV deal out of it. Got another $100,000 from the Union, for pain and suffering and bravery in the line of duty. The rest I told them I’d pay when the book drops.”

“You fuckin’ idiot.”

Orange gets to his feet, all stupid and young and still thuggish, still that little keg of eagerness and ease, still wanting to share, wanting to learn, too stupid to hide his fear and pain. “Have a drink with me, Larry. Please? No one fuckin’ _gets_ it man…the cops all think you guys were scumbags, the crooks think _I’m_ a scumbag. It’s not that simple anymore.”

“Seems pretty fuckin’ simple to me,” Dimick snaps, but he can’t even convince himself of it. This scrawny, pale kid, with the stupid floppy hair and the big green eyes, is staring at him, and for some reason, it undoes him completely.

“One drink,” Freddy pleads. “To thank you. For saving my life.”

“Kid…if we’re gonna talk, you sure as hell better be buying me more than one.” He glances toward the parking lot. “And you’d better have a ride.”

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

“I love you,” Freddy gasps as he comes. “Shit, Larry, I fucking love you so fucking much. You know that right?”

“I know,” Larry grunts, still working toward his own climax.

“Promise me, man. Fuckin’ promise me you know.”

“I _know_, baby. Fuckin’ swear.” He’s so close. “You need me to say it?”

“No,” he whispers, and jerks his hips up so Larry is pulsing into him. “I know you do.”

“Always,” Larry manages, breathing hard and finding the younger man’s mouth. “Always,” he whispers over his lips.

*

Holdaway's not entirely shocked when Freddy joins him in the Holiday Inn’s breakfast cafe, just signals to the waitress to fetch a fresh coffee.

“Officer Newandyke,” he says. “I feel like this is where you’d pull out a cigarette.”

“No one smokes up here. Besides, I wanted Larry to quit. Age difference…it makes me nervous. I want him to take care of himself.”

“That’s sweet.” Holdaway swallows down a bite of pancake. Freddy sets his jaw and takes a deep breath.

“I’m all yours,” Freddy says, hands under the table. “But Larry’s not. He took a bullet for me—he killed for me. This isn’t his fault.”

“And the murder spree wasn’t. And the cop shoot-out wasn’t. And the money and resources spent hunting your asses wasn’t.” Holdaway had to fight the urge to spit. “Fuck man, are you so far gone you can’t remember any of that? You killed a woman with a one year old.”

Freddy’s face twisted in pain. “I know,” he murmured. “I think about all of it, every day. Larry does too. There were times I was ready to turn myself in, but he talked me out of it. Because we’ve both seen the end of everything, and there was no warm white light, no brilliant next chapter. There was no guarantee we’d ever see each other again. So we had to stick together, as long as we could.”

“And now?”

“He’ll have a headstart.”

“You really believe that? That he’d take off and leave you in custody?”

The younger man raised his chin in defiance. “He deserves to be free.”

“He ain’t leaving you and you know it. He’ll track your ass down to Cali and shoot up the courthouse if he has to.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Freddy, listen to me—I didn't come here to arrest you. I came here to try and _save_ you. Do you really not see this for what it is? It’s Stockholm Syndrome, my brother. You guys went through hell, and somewhere along the way, you lost yourself in the crowd of black suits. He doesn’t love you—he can’t love anyone, because he’s a scumbag psychopath who thinks using you will help keep him out of jail.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Newandyke snapped. “But he killed two men he’d been friends with for decades, for _me_. He forgave me when I’d betrayed him, lied to him, set him up. No one else on Earth would ever do that.”

“And you expect that to excuse everything he’s done? Everything _you_ did?”

“I’m not trying to excuse it, I’m trying to fucking _survive_ it. And that means being with him.”

“Shit man—he’s the reason everything went down like it did!”

“_Mr. Blonde_ is the reason everything went down like it did.”

“That the psycho who shot up the jewelry store?”

“And tortured poor Marvin Nash.”

“He was a sick sonofabitch, I’ll give you that." Holdaway sighted. "Look--I get it, this guy was sweet on you, he protected you, but he’s a career criminal. He shot and killed cops—_your brothers_. He’s cut fingers off of managers. He said he death-marched some poor bastard off a cliff!”

“Lower your voice,” Freddy hissed. “That was my fault. I got up on a ladder with my back to that asshole, while Larry was upstairs. Customer knocked me out with a shotgun butt. Larry comes in, I’m facedown on the floor in a puddle of my own blood. I had to talk him _into_ marching that asshole off that cliff. Larry wanted to take him down to studs.”

“Freddy, _that is not how this works_. Guy knocks you out to rob you, you call the police. Guy goes to jail, you go to the hospital. This DIY shit isn’t _you_, man. If this crook loved you, he’d tell you to stay as far away from him as possible: hell, you’re a legend, even now. You’d be a Lieutenant had you stuck with us. You had a book deal and all that money. Guy or girl, I don’t care—you could have found someone who wants you to not to have to live looking over your shoulder. _That’s_ love, not whatever _this_ is.”

“I’m not here to convince you. I’m here to say you can arrest me, just leave Larry be. Bringing me in will be a career-maker. The book deal I left—you can have it. I’ll tell you everything, and it’ll be worth twice as much, because it’ll be your bust _and_ the shit storm in that warehouse. Samuel Jackson can play you in the HBO series. Just let Larry go.”

“He’s killed at least six cops, Freddy—_he’s_ the career-making bust, not you. And I’m not here to take you in. Not like this.” Holdaway sighs. “Listen to me—I’m going back to LA today. I can see you’re not ready to come with me, and that’s okay. Let’s keep in touch. I’m not going to sic the Feds on you, alright? I’ll get a burner phone to call you on, and we’ll just chat about normal stuff. And you want to leave, you call me and I’ll get you out. You hear me? I owe you that, for putting this whole shit show in motion.”

Freddy swallows, hard. “It’s been good to see you, kinda. I missed lots of the guys, and lots of things back home. But nowhere near how I missed him.”

The diner door swings open and Larry’s there, in a dark green button down and dark blue winter vest, barreling down on them like he knew exactly where they’d be.

“Coffee,” he says cheerfully as a waitress passes. He slides into the booth next to Freddy, tosses an arm around him, and pops a toothpick in his mouth. “What’s the word, fellas? We cool?”

“We’re gold, Mr. White,” Holdaway says. Freddy reaches up and entwines his fingers with Larry’s, briefly pressing his cheek to the back of Dimick’s hand.

“You followed me.”

“Figured twenty-minutes was enough time for you to get the martyrdom out of your system.”

A waitress laid a fresh cup of coffee down and refilled the other two. “Need anything else?”

“Just the check,” Larry said, smiling. “My treat,” he said to Holdaway. “But I need you to move along, understand me?”

“Was just telling Freddy—”

“His name is Tim,” Dimick snapped. “Tim and Darrel—that’s what we’re known as around here.”

“—_Tim_, that I’m not going to bust anyone. But I’d like to stay in touch. That cool?”

“I don’t control who he sees or speaks to.”

“You followed him here.”

“He came here to turn himself in. He does that, I do that. It’s _his_ call.”

The waitress returns with a slip and a “have a nice day.” Larry beams at her. Freddy squeezes Dimick’s hand.

“Can we go home?” he asks.

“Snow’s coming in, first of the season. We should make a grocery run.” He looks at Holdaway. “You flying out soon?”

“Couple hours.”

“Come along. You can get a look at our life on the lam.”

“Larry,” Freddy whispers, tugging at his partner’s hand.

“S’all good, buddy-boy,” Larry murmurs turning to smile at him. “We’re all good.”

**CALIFORNIA, FEBRUARY 1993**

“Did you see anything? When you were dead?”

“I don’t fucking remember being dead,” Larry snaps and lights a cigarette. “It was just darkness.”

“That’s what I saw. They told me later, that I was dead. They brought me back twice.”

“What did you expect? A white light? Grandma and Grandpa? A glowing asshole with giant fucking wings coming to take you ‘home?’”

Larry feels instant guilt when Freddy’s face falls in shame and hurt. “I thought…I just…thought. That there’d be _something_.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, kid,” Larry sighs out smoke. “I didn’t see anything noteworthy.”

“That’s not the worse part.” Freddy swallows, hard. “I woke up…and I just wanted you. And you weren’t there.”

“I was getting three slugs pulled out of my fuckin’ chest, all thanks to _you_.”

Freddy took a long, hard drink. “Nothing makes fuckin’ _sense_ man. I think part of me died with Orange.”

“Why, because you realized you liked some of those guys you want to lock up?”

“Partly. Partly because our guys didn’t step in and save their own. Partly because I thought I could do good, and now I see it’s all just going to keep fuckin’ going. I got more people killed going undercover than if I’d never stepped foot in it.”

“So leave the force. Get yourself a nice factory gig—hear they pay well.”

“Fuck off, Larry—it’s more than that. Fuck, man, I can’t tell you the last time I woke up excited about something until this fuckin’ caper, when I knew I’d see _you_.”

Larry feels a real pang of sadness. “I’m nothing but trouble, kid. An alcoholic, chain smoking, thieving pissrag. One way or another, I’m going to die in my own blood. You should take this money back, sink it into stocks and bonds and whatever normal people do, make rank, get yourself a nice girl and 2.5 kids, a dog, and forget you ever met me.”

“I try to picture that, Larry, I do…and it’s just more darkness. But you and me…that’s bright and clear.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, kid.”

“Freddy. My name’s Freddy.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Freddy.”

“I want you to skip out on your bail and run. And I want you to take me with you.”

“You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“You’re the only thing in my life that ain’t shit, man.”

“You’ve got to be wired in, and I ain’t playing anymore. I sing pretty, tell them everything, play by the rules, I can still get out with some life left.”

“Not if you take off.”

Larry shook his head. “Kid, you’ve got a thousand fuckin’ screws loose.”

“I can’t take it here anymore. _Shit_, man, I’ve never even been out of California. I never had the time or the money to think of going anywhere. Then I met you and it’s all I want to do—just get the fuck away from all of this. You should do the same.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know you can do it—I know you have the people to help you. I can show you I’m trustworthy, and between the two of us, we can make a living.”

“I think you should see a shrink or something, buddy-boy. The Department have one?”

Orange—the kid—Freddy—Officer Newandyke, leaned across the table. “I don’t want to see a shrink. I just want you.” 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You can do it, I know you can.” Freddy leans in, so his lips nearly brush Larry’s. “Just run, somewhere, _anywhere_, and take me with you,” he says. Exhales smoke. “Take me with you.”

“Fuck you,” Larry snaps, then caves in and kisses him like the bar’s gone up in flames and it’s the first and only time he’ll get to try.

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

“Not these,” Larry says, grabbing the paper towel three-pack and shoving them back at Freddy.

“The fuck not?”

“Remember the eggs?”

“_You_ knocked over the eggs.”

“_You_ put them on the edge of the sink, I turn around—”

“I _told_ _you, _watch the eggs, there’s fuckin eggs!”

“—and it took us twenty minutes to get that shit up, because of _these_!”

“No, it’s because you ignored me and turned with no regard for the container.”

“You had no respect for the _fragility_ of the contents of that container.”

“_I respect eggs_. I’m the one who said we should get chickens. We’re the only sonsofbitches in 150 miles who don’t have our own chickens.”

“We’re not getting fuckin’ chickens because I don’t want to hear some alpha-sonofabitch sounding off at dawn in the off-season, when all I have to do is wake up and make eggs, as long as my idiot partner doesn’t stick them somewhere they’re liable to fall.”

“So what the fuck do you want me to get?”

“Brawny.”

“That shit’s $8.99 a pack, the hell I’m getting that.”

“Then get the generic equivalent. With the pockets, not the ridges. The ridges just push the shit around.”

“You know what you are? You’re a fuckin’ victim of marketing.”

“And you’re a huge fuckin’ pain in the ass—_get some other kind of paper towel_. Jesus, shopping with a chick would be easier.”

“This is all because those commercials were playing when you were watching those stupid online videos.”

“What, the ones where the guys try the cheap food, and then the expensive food?”

“No, the other ones.”

“What other ones?”

“The fuckin’ _other_ ones, that kept having the paper towel ads, and you went off about how gross the bears were—”

“That was toilet paper, and that was running while I’m trying to watch the guys eat! Yeah that’s gross!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, _I’ll_ get the paper towels,” Holdaway snapped, and the two of them startled like they’d forgotten he was there. “How do you two get _anything_ done?”

They both look at him like _he’s_ crazy, and he rolls his eyes and stalks off toward the paper aisle, finding something he hopes will appease them both before wandering back down the aisle. They’ve moved on to produce, and Freddy keeps frantically gesturing while Larry points firm and hard, the bickering this time appearing to be over peppers and onions.

But they’re both smiling, and looking like the other is the greatest fucking thing they’ve ever seen, and they’re the luckiest guy in the world to know him, and it sinks Holdaway’s hope of being Freddy’s knight in shining armor, because they are completely fucking gone on each other. Freddy constantly bumps his shoulder against Dimick’s: Dimick constantly brushes his hand along Freddy’s shoulders, his back, his hair. The chemistry is there, but it’s not what jumps at him—it’s their near-childish delight in each other, like they just can’t believe they found someone to bitch about paper towels with, and how every foul-mouthed comment is just the funniest, greatest insight the other had ever heard.

It isn’t until that moment that Randy Holdaway realizes that he’d hoped that wherever Freddy Newandyke had ended up, that he’d ended up with someone who really, truly loved him. And watching Larry Dimick roll his eyes and grumble “fine! get your stupid fuckin’ onions!” relieves some of the aching pressure on his conscience for the first time in 15 years.

**CALIFORNIA, FEBRUARY 1993**

He’s in a cop’s apartment.

A tiny, sad apartment.

Medical supplies are all over the bedroom—Freddy isn’t fully recovered. There’s pill bottles, boxes of bandages, isopropyl alcohol. There’s a box of stale donuts and comic posters. Freddy’s a man, yes, but he’s still a _kid_.

The fuck is he fuckin’ doing with this _kid_?

He feels like a filthy fuckin’ old man…but _fuck_. They don’t even have sex, just curl up together, and Larry wraps around him like he couldn’t on that ramp—firm and tight. They make out like teenagers, and then they just lie there, holding on, and it feels like the cops are going to kick in the door like they did in that fuckin’ warehouse, where Orange screamed for them not to shoot and Larry fired at the floor, knowing it would be enough to get himself killed.

He _should_ run—away from Orange. The kid. _Freddy_. If he leaves, the guy'll be sad for a bit, but then he’ll come around. He’ll have his book deal and his job and hordes of suitors. Men and women alike will fawn over the hero undercover cop, wounded in the line of duty. Orange’ll want for nothing.

It's the right thing to do—but Larry Dimick has never really been interested in doing the right thing. 

So he breathes in the smell of the young man’s hair and says “I have contacts in Arizona.”

**CANADA, SEPTEMBER 2007**

“Larry?”

“Hm?”

“When you die…you’ll take me with you. Right?”

“Shut the fuck up. I ain’t dying.”

“Larry. Promise.”

The older man sighs and hoists the younger closer, hand absently stroking his hair. The bed is the most comfortable one he’s ever owned and the first thing they’d bought together—Alabama had spread a hand-sewn quilt over it, and Freddy only buys Egyptian cotton sheets. The wind hits the windows, but it stays warm, partly from their bodies, partly from the heavy insulation they’d had layered over every inch of this place. It’s the safest, and best, Larry has ever felt.

“Together forever, buddy-boy,” he mumbles, and kisses the younger man’s forehead. Freddy holds on tight.

Over the lake, it’s started to snow.


End file.
